


Episodic Memory

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of intra/extra-episode vignettes.  Fairly schmoopy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Episodic Memory

**Title:** Episodic Memory  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** spans both series, so spoilers for everything, basically  
 **Summary:** A collection of intra/extra-episode vignettes. Fairly schmoopy.

 _Episodic memory is the memory of autobiographical events (times, places, associated emotions, and other contextual knowledge) that can be explicitly stated._  
\- Thus spoke Wikipedia

 

 

They leave the crime scene and get a taxi the next street up, but apparently John _still_ hasn't learned his lesson about ignoring cabbies, because he gets a hold of Sherlock's scarf and tugs him into a decisive kiss.

Sherlock lets it happen, responds a little because, hm, interesting, isn't it . . . John pauses for breath, too close to look at him but somehow the nearness of their faces feels much more intimate than eye contact. John's hand releases Sherlock's scarf, trails down Sherlock's chest and slides around his waist while the other comes up to hold him still at the back of his neck, biting at Sherlock's bottom lip and tilting his head to kiss him more thoroughly. Sherlock responds to that, too, because this relative stranger had killed a man twenty minutes ago, laughed about it, and then proceeded to snog him in the back of a taxi.

Sherlock pulls back. "Why?"

John falls, startled, into the sudden space between them. "Well, you did seem convinced I was chatting you up back at the restaurant. I guess that means I must have been."

"Ah. Why _now_?"

"I dunno," John says. "You gave me a compliment of sorts back there. I get the impression those are hard to come by, with you." Normally when people say things like that to Sherlock, they're bitter. John just grins through it.

*

There are similar incidents.

Sometimes Sherlock will close John's laptop and kiss him because he's bored, and sometimes John will grab Sherlock's sleeve at a crime scene, take him to a deserted room and kiss him within mere feet of the forensic team—that threat of discovery must've held a certain appeal, for John. Sherlock doesn't mind.

Sherlock wonders if this is normal, but if this _is_ what couples do, then he can live with that. It's not horribly distracting, and nothing's ever expected of him. Expectations . . . that was something he'd always found particularly distasteful about _relationships_. For God's sake, there were expectations in _all_ of his incidental relationships. Lestrade expected him to explain everything, Molly expected him to flirt back, Mycroft expected him to behave.

John doesn't expect him to explain to or flirt with or behave for him, but Sherlock has done all three, on occasion, because then John might call him 'amazing' or kiss him or, at the very least, smile a subtle enigmatic smile, like he knows something Sherlock doesn't, which of course he _doesn't_ , but . . .

The way John practically throws his phone at Sherlock by the train tracks, the way he turns sharply to leave makes Sherlock suspect he must have annoyed him. He puts John's phone in his pocket, catches up to him with the crunch of gravel and the clatter of trains in his ears, catches his arm, goes to kiss him—

"Come on, just, _not now_ , all right?" John barely deviates from his march through the darkness.

It takes Sherlock a few oversized strides to come level with him again. "Ah yes, I see. Your new job, What's-her-name."

Oh, John _is_ annoyed—laughs in a distinctly annoyed sort of way. "Sherlock, we've got to try and decode this, and I'm bloody tired as it is, and now fantastically dizzy, on top of that, so can you just quit it with the—"

"It's her, though."

"A bit, yeah." Laughs in that unsavory way again, shakes his head and walks on ahead of him.

Sherlock doesn't mind, because even though he hadn't expected that, exactly, there are no expectations, here.

*

"Putting my best man onto it right now."

"Right, good. Who's that?"

Sherlock decides to let him stand there haplessly til it sinks in. "Just one thing before you go, though," he says, puts his papers aside and looks up at John. "Well? Come _here_."

John sighs, unfolds his arms and walks around the desk to him, bends to peer at the collage of photos and police reports.

Sherlock collars him, yanks him down for a kiss.

John's unexpectedly eager, _mm_ -ing and sliding his tongue into Sherlock's mouth almost immediately. Sherlock sucks on it, then retreats to brush their lips together directionlessly amid hot, harsh breathing.

It occurs to Sherlock that perhaps the only reason John is complying is because What's-her-name hasn’t put out after weeks of careful, respectful John Watson wooing.

Another few mashes of mouth and Sherlock's satisfied, sits back in his chair and types in a new Google search.

"Wha . . . what was that for?" John's dazed, slumped against the desk rather heavily.

"Helps my thoughts keep from getting carried away with themselves," Sherlock says. "You said you wanted to help. Now, you'd better pop off and visit Mycroft before he takes to the airwaves to whine."

*

John and Sherlock don't say a word to each other as they leave the pool, walk through locker rooms and bright silent hallways and out into London. John leans against him, and Sherlock lets them, and he's not entirely sure who's supporting who.

Sherlock doesn't want to ask how Moriarty had found John, or what he'd done to him—he doesn't want to _know_ , because if he can visualize it any better, he might just turn around right now and (unwisely) hunt Moriarty down while the trail's still hot.

They arrive back at the flat so quickly. Sherlock doesn't even say anything about John and his leg, because John doesn't usually say anything about Sherlock's . . . well, about Sherlock, so it's only fair . . .

Except that John had said something, before. John was disappointed—he had had expectations.

Sherlock turns to him in the living room. This is what he sees:

Short of breath, faint blush, kiss him here, touch him there, cautious eyes, determined jaw . . .

Sherlock can't tell whether he'd pushed John up against the door or if John had drawn him there, but anyway they're kissing now, and John's fingers tangle tight in his hair, and Sherlock runs his hands over John, over and over, just to confirm he's all in one piece, John's shirt sticking with sweat (ghost of explosives), John's mouth opening for him easily and John's voice transmitting little moans of encouragement.

Sherlock decides that they've had sufficient, if extremely spread out, foreplay, as evidenced by the fact that they're both hard and grinding instinctively against each other. And the fact that John's currently struggling with Sherlock's belt, kissing his neck in a gentle way at odds with the roughness of his hand when it closes around Sherlock's cock, strokes light and fast and tantalizingly.

This is not enough. Sherlock works John's trousers open, too, bats John's hand away and kisses him quiet while gripping them both and thrusting into it, strokes up and down the length of John's cock and John tries to gasp, sucks Sherlock's lip into his mouth instead and Sherlock bites back, moves his hips faster to John's crescendoing groans.

"Sherlock," John is saying. "Sherlock . . . _ah_ . . . listen, I can't. Can't. Just—sofa?"

"No," Sherlock says, makes it so they're on the floor, straddles John and keeps him against the wall, concentrating on jerking his cock, obsessed with the sight of him with his head tipped back and sweat darkening his sideburns and body shifting underneath him.

John's getting close, tensing and grabbing futilely at floor boards. Stares at Sherlock, direct, with black-looking eyes and his mouth parted and panting and oh, _God_ Sherlock needs to kiss that, that alluring thing John's been reduced to . . .

So he does, tastes his mouth, chin, throat, collarbone, and he's got John's coming not long after.

John wraps a stable hand around Sherlock's cock while his breath's still erratic, eyes falling shut on residual bliss. He pumps Sherlock hard and perfectly and soon gets him equally breathless and shaking and silent.

*

This shirt of John's is stupid. Childish looking. Inexplicably striped. But the play of different shades of blue on it highlights his eyes where so many articles of clothing have failed before it.

It's also stupid because it refuses to come off, a bit tight and stretchy and slippery-soft because John sleeps in it. Sherlock finally gives up, just drags John the rest of the way into Sherlock's room, no matter that Mycroft and Mrs Hudson have since cleared off. John is always rather . . . _unscrupulous_ when they shag in a bedroom.

Sherlock deeply suspects John has a fetish of some kind for Sherlock's coat, because even when he hasn't got it on John insists on fisting his hands in Sherlock's robe.

John laughs, upsets the kiss.

But Sherlock's not amused. " _Problem_?"

"You have a framed periodic table."

"Yes. And?"

"Just. What _are_ you?"

So Sherlock kisses him against the bloody picture, because John is annoying, and because Sherlock suspects he himself might have a bit of a fetish for kissing John against whatever surface happens to be handy, but to be fair, John does go _Ah!_ and kiss back and writhe sensuously. He's doing it right now, in fact.

They never talk about how they've settled into this routine of spontaneous, occasional sex, and Sherlock isn't sure whether that's more or less normal than the random kisses. The reasons for the sex are never the same—they run the gambit from Sherlock finding conversation tedious to John getting shot down by his latest conquest. Right now, it's because John's jealous, and although the kissing does seems to be working, nevertheless Sherlock feels compelled to say:

"I personalized your text tone, too."

"Oh?" John goes from pleased to suspicious. " _Oh_?"

"Yes." Sherlock nudges his way into another kiss.

"Uh uh, hang on—tell me what it is."

Sherlock pretends to consider. "Better not." Draws him nearer.

John squirms out of his arms—that slippery, sneaky man—taps out a text on his phone.

From Sherlock's pocket, in a recording of John's voice: _You're brilliant!_

John shoves him, but he's grinning. "So. Every time I text you to complain about spleens in the fridge or to tell you to bugger off, all you hear is 'You're brilliant'."

"I always hear 'You're brilliant' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext. Well, actually . . . no it's not."

John snorts, shoves him again, but onto the bed this time, and he chases it with an assault of laughing kisses.

*

Sherlock is busy pacing around the lab when a hand catches one of his in the middle of a flailing gesture. Sherlock can't help the gasp of surprise, refocuses on the real world and realizes it's only John.

Sherlock shakes himself, then stares at John intently. "Solved. America— _obvious_ . . . John, we've got to—"

John shushes him. "Sherlock, stop that."

" _What_?"

" _Thinking_." John strokes over his wrists.

"Can't."

John quirks a smile, strokes his wrists some more, soothing, then up under his sleeves as he zooms in to kiss him.

Sherlock hates having to bend this much, so he backs John into a nearby table, knocking a chair and sending it rolling forlornly away. John uses Sherlock for leverage a bit and hops up onto the table, reels Sherlock in with a lovely wicked look and crashes their mouths together.

Several, heated minutes later, John smiles at him. "Better?"

"Your kisses are not in fact mind-blowing, mind-alternating, cancer-curing, et cetera. Where _do_ you get these ideas? "

John drops from the table, putting him exceedingly close to Sherlock, leans in so their mouths are within an inch of each other. "No no, of course not . . . Sherlock . . ."

Sherlock finds himself not so much listening to him as swaying inexorably closer to—

To nothing. John's left, grabbed Sherlock's coat along the way. "Let's be off, shall we? Big bad wolf to catch, and all."

*

John doesn't actually have much trouble getting over the fence. As he's attempting to climb down, expression a mixture of triumph and panic, his jacket snags and he loses his footing, toppling cartoonishly. The violent twist of it takes Sherlock down with him, just as pathetic, and they land entangled on the grimy street with John's shoe stuck in Sherlock's coat, somehow, and Sherlock's knee digging into John's side, cuffed together hands stretched above Sherlock's head and the chain caught irritatingly in Sherlock's hair. They're nose to nose, breathing hard with sprinting and fear and proximity.

And because he hasn't done it in ages, Sherlock pulls John down and into a kiss.

John makes a surprised, disarmingly soft noise before kissing back. Sherlock's concerned or impressed or pleased that John doesn't care that they are currently resisting arrest. For his part, Sherlock likes this feeling of being limited—handcuffs and imminent police and John's body pinning him. Sherlock strains his head to kiss him better, and John pauses to gasp before taking Sherlock's face in both his hands—Sherlock's linked arm twists awkwardly, but he likes that a bit, too—and making the next one a messy, swiftly deepening kiss.

Shock of a siren that pierces the silence, then. John jumps and Sherlock wrestles his free hand out of his coat to catch John's shoulder, steady him and urge him closer.

John throws caution to the wind in that remarkable way of his and presses their mouths back together. He's just begun running his tongue along Sherlock's, hot and leisurely, when another, more insistent siren sounds, apparently fed up with being ignored.

John breaks the kiss on a sigh that's half regret and half erotic. "Right, then. Come on, up you get." He springs to his feet, tugs Sherlock til he's standing with an authoritativeness that makes Sherlock need to respond. He can't _not respond_ to something, and especially not John's hands on him.

John's suspicious. "Sher—" Kissing him, now. John tries to speak again so Sherlock uses the handcuffs to unbalance him—jerks their arms out suddenly and gets John against the fence. John makes a noise that modulates from disgruntled to helplessly lustful in five seconds flat.

Sherlock waits until the next siren to tear himself away and start running again, John in tow and taking his hand even though it's not strictly necessary.

*

Sherlock watches John walk away in the cemetery, and this is what he sees:

Hasn't slept, hasn't been crying, hasn't eaten, hasn't got his gun . . .

And also:

Kiss here, touch there, hold here, keep there, mouth that smiles or chides or jokes, hands that deflect or want, aiming his gun steadily, rolling his eyes in a taxi, touching his arm briefly when the case becomes predictable, looking up at him while kissing down his body, looking down at him when he's bored on the sofa and handing him the nicotine patches he's just picked up at the store . . .

Sherlock thinks it's possible that there are expectations, here.

Sherlock intercepts him at a nicely secluded little copse. He doesn't know the right thing to say, so he just takes John by the arm and turns him around midstride.

John doesn't react at first, just blinks and stays stoic. "Somehow," he says at length, strikingly normal-voiced. " _If_ anything . . . I thought you'd text me."

"I prefer to see you in person."

"Yes, me too." Something in John's expression caves. "You're an idiot."

"Yes," Sherlock says. His brain clogs with memories, terrifyingly sharp recall—John praising him, laughing at him, kissing, rejecting, touching, yelling, disappointed, sleepy, following, helping, staying, always staying—

John laughs in the distance. "I can _hear_ you thinking. Shut up."

"Can't."

John steps, smiles, kisses him.

*


End file.
